


Help Me (Heal Me)

by MoMoMomma



Series: Kinktober 2018 [2]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Companionable Snark, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Medical Examination, Medical Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 20:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16166471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoMoMomma/pseuds/MoMoMomma
Summary: In which John makes a bad decision in positioning his next carved sin, Rook is too nice for his own good, and discoveries are both good and bad.





	Help Me (Heal Me)

One of these days Rook’s need to help any and everything in pain is going to get him killed. Or worse, given what Eden’s Gate does to some people. He’s seen the corpses strung up, stuffed with Bliss, some crazy warning to others.

And yet here he is. Responding to John’s late night radio call, sneaking into his ranch past guards that, really, ought to be fired for inattention. All because John’s voice had gone a bit soft when he’d whispered a gentle “please, Deputy. I need you.” 

His attraction to people who are eventually going to self-destruct and take him with them is also a problem Rook should address when his world isn’t on fire 90% of the time. 

Rook gathers up his med-pack to his chest, keeping it from jangling around as he slips inside, closing the door silently behind him. There aren’t guards inside the main room of John’s house, just a flash of movement from the other side of the massive fireplace before John steps into view. Rook does a quick assessment, frowning slightly, one hand drifting back to the knob.

John doesn’t look injured. His clothes are pristine, no bloodstains or tears, no bruising on his face either. He’s breathing normally, standing tall and proud, and the roaring fire is enough light to show that his eyes are placid, not fever bright, and there are no spots of color on his cheeks.

“If you brought me here,” Rook enunciates clearly, keeping his tone level and voice low, “because you caught an STD or something else I can’t see from an initial observation, I am going to kill you with your own kitchen knives.”

“Oh, Wrath,” John tips his head, coming closer, a smile playing around his mouth. “Always so ready for violence. Doesn’t it get tiring?”

“I have syringes in my bag that can put a cougar under. I will stab you in the neck and leave you naked for your guards to find.”

_That_ makes John pause, a scowl flashing briefly before it all evens out, hands lifted in a gesture of peace. 

“Alright. Alright! I asked you here for a good reason.”

“Did you catch the Clap?”

“Enough.” John snaps, close enough now Rook takes his hand off the doorknob, wanting both palms free in case he lunges. “I have a...I think my wound is infected.”

“What wound?” Rook goes back into observation mode in an instant, tipping his head this way and that as John shifts guiltily in place.

“It’s not--it’s covered at the moment.”

“Would you like to _un_ cover it?” Rook arches a brow. “Or am I supposed to go wound spelunking?”

“That’s not technically the correct term--”

“ _John_.”

“Fine!” John sighs, shakes his head like Rook’s being the difficult one. “It’s on my stomach. Would you...where do you want me? _How_ do you want me?”

Well. There’s a temptation there. But Rook bites back any flirting--fuck knows he does enough of that when John’s radioing to bother him--and nods towards the couch on the other side of the fireplace. 

“I’ll need you to lay down. Couch should work just fine, just take your shirt off on the way.”

“It’s...low on my stomach.” John murmurs, almost seeming shy for a split second as Rook rolls his eyes. 

“Then strip off any clothes that might be in the way. Keep your underwear on, shove it down if you have to.”

“It’s...very low on my stomach.”

“John.” Rook stops, midway towards the couch, turning to stare back at where John hasn’t moved an inch. “Where is the fucking thing?”

“Let us just say I had to shave to properly mark it into myself.”

Rook has to stare at the floor for a moment, just to take it in. He’s half-tempted to walk away, tell John to patch up whatever the hell it is on his own. But John looks hurt, is moving more carefully now that Rook knows what to look for. Missing his usual belt, too. It’s subtle, but he’s definitely in pain and Rook’s never been able to resist something that needs his help.

And god above does John need _someone_ to help him.

“Strip down. Totally. On your back on the table.”

“The couch suddenly isn’t good enough?”

“If you’re on the couch, I’m going to have to kneel next to you. At least you can be naked with me still standing if you’re on the table.” Rook snaps, John flushing for a split second before starting to strip. 

Rook tracks backward, clears off a space on the table. Normally, he’d put something down, a sheet or something similar, but John can absolutely disinfect his own damn table. 

Marking something into his own crotch. What a fucking idiot.

Rook keeps his back to John, sets his bag on a chair to rifle through as he needs, dragging free bandages, alcohol wipes, and some Neosporin to start. There are gentle footfalls, so soft he wouldn’t hear them if he wasn’t listening intently, and Rook gestures to the table without looking up.

“Lay down. Use your shirt to cover up your cock.”

“Fantastic bedside manners.” John grumbles as he complies, Rook studiously keeping his gaze on the floor until there’s a sighed “fine. I’m ready.”

“If I look up and I can see your cock,” Rook says carefully to the floorboards, “I am going to make good on my promise to stab you.”

There’s a pause, the shift of clothing against skin, and John sounds utterly annoyed when he snaps out a brusque “ready.”

Rook chances looking up, lets out a small relieved sigh when it appears that John actually listened for once in his life, before recoiling back a step. 

“Jesus, John,” he breathes, reaching out towards the angry and irritated words scratched so low into John’s hips he’s pretty sure the tail of the S almost brushed the base of his cock. 

It doesn’t immediately look infected, but it looks _painful_ , especially since the hair has started to grow back and is further irritating the wound. John shifts in place, obviously uncomfortable, muttering something about taking the Lord’s name in vain before Rook glares at him.

“You should’ve called me immediately. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“You are a sin,” John admits softly, lowly, like speaking the words are a sin once again. “I had to Atone for it.”

“You really fucking didn’t,” Rook says, regretting every single flirt and heated meeting in shadows as he moves closer and inspects the torn skin. “When did you _do_ this? Shit, I don’t have gloves, I--”

“It’s alright. I don’t--you’re clean.” It’s said like John thinks he’s not and that makes Rook wince harder than he had upon initially seeing the wound. 

He still digs free a bottle of hand sanitizer, thoroughly dosing his hands and rubbing off any excess before he leans over. It’s the best he can do; he really didn’t think he’d need gloves for this. Rook tries to compartmentalize, shift his brain into medic mode instead of caring almost-lover, brushing a forefinger around the harsh line of the T. It’s slightly swollen, probably from rubbing up against clothing, but there’s no heat there. 

Not infected, then. Probably. Hopefully.

“Have you had a fever recently? Nausea? Any weakness?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Probably not infected, best I can tell.” Rook shakes his head. “It’s not like I can test it. Normally I’d shove you on antibiotics just because of how likely it is to get infected but I don’t have any lying around.”

“I have some,” John admits softly, scowling at Rook’s snort. “I’m sorry, do you somehow think people gathering together in a bunker won’t need medicine?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Rook reaches down, tears open one of the alcohol pads with his teeth and pauses with it hovering above skin. He lifts his gaze for a split second, flattening his free hand on John’s belly, feeling the way it immediately flexes underneath his palm. 

“This is gonna hurt like a bitch. But I need to make sure it’s clean before I bandage it.”

John swallows thickly, head thunking back onto the table, speaking to the ceiling.

“Do what you need to.”

There are no curses when Rook starts to slowly clean away the dried blood that’s ringing the letters. No hisses or even a change in breathing and he decidedly does _not_ focus on John’s reactions to pain. That way lies pity and sadness; he needs to stay focused right now. John’s only concession to what must be screaming pain in such a sensitive area is one hand carefully curved around his forearm, not pulling, just holding.

It’s not until Rook lifts his head, unfocuses on his task for a split second to reach for the Neosporin, he gapes down at John’s hips. Not at his wound for once, but just below it--literally, because John’s an _idiot_.

“Are you hard right now?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” John grits out. 

“Yeah, no, we’re _definitely_ talking about it.” Rook snaps. “Do you get off on pain? Is that it? You know, I was just fucking joking about that all those times but--”

“It’s not pain; it’s...you.”

“I’m flattered,” Rook says drily. 

“Not _that_ ,” John lifts his head to snarl, fingers digging crescent marks into Rook’s skin. “It’s the...medic bit. It’s not pain.”

“You have a kink for doctors?”

“I have a...inclination towards them.”

“Oh, you are such a pain in the ass.” Rook can’t help but laugh, lets it bubble up inside until John’s trying to sit up, forcing him back with the hand still against his belly. “No, no, lay down. I need to bandage you up.”

“I’m not going to sit here and be laughed at!”

“No,” Rook murmurs. “You’re going to _lay_ there. And you’re going to let me patch you up. And then, because you made a terrible choice in wound placement, you’re going to let me do an exam. Make sure you didn’t damage any...vital nerves down there.”

John’s cheeks instantly flush, pupils dilate as he sucks in a shocked breath. He stares for a second too long before relaxing back, legs spreading slightly, only making the tent under the shirt more obvious.

“Yes, Doctor Wylde.”

“I don’t have my degree,” Rook says idly, smoothing the cream along the letters, fingers careful and light. “Just a medic. But it works for you, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t need to answer that.”

“You don’t. But I’d like to hear it.” He opens the bandages obnoxiously loud, the package tearing in the hushed silence.

“I...yes, Doctor Wylde.”

“Good boy,” Rook murmurs warmly, watching the twitch under the fabric with a growing grin. 

He holds the bandage in his hand, tries to consider where best to place it, before tipping his head. Logically, bandages aren’t the best option here, no matter how much he wants to use them. John’s wound being as irritated as it is means peeling the bandages off is going to be a bitch and interrupt the scabbing process, even if he washes them off in the shower. 

He thinks back to John’s little kink, his ‘inclination’, and fights to hide his grin.

“Change in plans. Up on your feet.”

“I--what?” John pops up, braces his hands next to his hips to push himself to sitting with a frown already firmly in place. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out now.”

“Of course not.” Rook guides him off the table with one firm hand around the nape, all but dragging if John didn’t go so willingly. “But medics have to make decisions on the fly. And I’m all for improvisation.”

He steadies John away from the table, enough that John can’t lean back and brace himself on it or the chairs. It takes a moment to grab his gauze from the pack, sitting neatly on top because it seems like more and more Rook’s just wrapping it over his forearms and hands during combat to try and stem the bleeding so he can keep going. John watches him, eyes narrowed before they drift closed completely with a soft noise when Rook sinks to his knees in front of him. His hands are white-knuckling the shirt, trying to keep it in place, trying to behave, but Rook nudges them with an impatient brush of his fingers.

“I need to wrap the wound, or it’s not going to be as protected as I’d like. The shirt’s only going to get in the way, go ahead and drop it.”

John complies so fast it almost makes Rook laugh. He manages to fight it down to a snort, unrolling the gauze in his hands. John’s staring down at him, hands now clenched into fists at his sides, shifting place. 

“Localized swelling,” Rook murmurs, earning a groan from John and a snapped “would you please be serious?”

“Oh, I’m being very serious.” He pins one end of the gauze against the very edge of the L, reaching behind to wrap it around and trying his level best not to get poked in the eye. “I’m only looking out for my patient’s wellbeing.”

“Is that so?” John murmurs, one hand lifting hesitantly before landing on Rook’s shoulder for balance. “And how do you intend to do that?”

“Seems to me you have some self-destructive tendencies, John. Those are best dealt with in a healthy way, as opposed to self-flagellation.”

“And how would you suggest, Doctor Wylde, that I deal with them?”

Rook reaches down to his pocket, fishes out the length of tape he’d stuffed there before going to his knees and rips off a bit with his teeth. It’s a simple, practiced motion to tape the gauze to itself, wrapped protectively over John’s wounds now. It should protect him for a bit, at least, though on a practical note he’ll have to change it until the wounds start to heal on their own.

That’s alright, though. He can be on call for dressing changes as long as John wants. He likes this new compliant John, quiet and easy-going in ways he usually never is. 

“A better sort of release. You seem to have a hell of a lot of issues surrounding your sexuality. Maybe freely indulging could help you get over them.”

“Are you writing me a prescription for sex?” John snorts.

“I am advising that you have a few more orgasms, see if that doesn’t settle your ass down.”

“Even in my wounded state?” Man, John can pout with the best of them it seems. “You wouldn’t want me to unnecessarily strain something, would you?”

“Bit heavy handed there.” Rook grumbles but drops the tape and gauze to wrap one hand around John’s cock.

There’s another hand on him in an instant, curling into his hair, and Rook flicks his gaze upwards for a split second.

“Pull my hair and I’ll bite down so hard you’ll wish I’d just stabbed you.”

He’s out of practice, a bit sloppy, lips going numb and jaw aching within minutes. But John doesn’t seem to mind, making soft little mewls and tugging minutely before he seems to catch himself, patting at Rook’s head like a dog with hurried murmurs of “sorry, sorry, so sorry.” It’s almost cute, in a way, how well John behaves once someone else is touching his cock. 

Rook splays a hand high on John’s stomach after the first jerk of his hips, pulling off to work his hand up and down in the lingering spit. He licks over his lips, watches John copy the motion unconsciously.

“Don’t move too much, Mr. Seed. We wouldn’t want you to exacerbate the wound.”

It takes John a second to compose himself, eyes fluttering, teeth sunk into his bottom lips. His hand flexes on Rook’s head, feet braced apart.

“Yes, Doctor Wylde.”

“You really like that, huh?” Rook murmurs, before fitting his mouth back around the thick tip. 

He winds up actually having to hold John in place, palm on his stomach and one gripping the meat of his thigh, squeezing in warning when he tries to move. He knows a lot of it is instinctual, but he genuinely doesn’t want to have to patch John up because he wound up bleeding through the gauze. 

Rook’s lips feel swollen, jaw screaming at him by the time John fists his shirt over his shoulder, patting frantically at his head.

“I’m going to--I can’t--”

Rook doesn’t answer, just urges him forward and tries to relax his throat. John makes a broken sort of noise, doubling over above him, hands sliding to smack against his shoulder blades as he comes. It’s rough, like it’s been a while, torn out of him just like the gritted teeth scream of Rook’s name.

Never gets old, hearing John say his name like that. Makes up for all the times he’s snarled it when Rook’s pissed him off. 

Rook draws back with a slick noise, swallowing thickly and pushing until John takes a step back and sags against the table. His knees click when he forces himself to his feet, making him grimace as he swipes a hand across his mouth.

“Well, Mr. Seed. How do you feel?”

“Like I might--” John has to pause, catch his breath, chest pumping wildly even as he tries to go for smooth and suave. “Like I might need a few more visits. Just to--just to make sure the treatment is going as planned.”

“Kinky little shit.” Rook gripes, but lets John step forward, wind arms around his neck, press a kiss to the side of his mouth. “Let me take a shower and sleep. S’the least you could do.”

“Mmm. Fine. And then you’ll have to leave.”

“What’s the matter, John? Don’t want Joseph to find out you had a late night doctor’s visit?”

“Now who’s being a little shit?” John huffs as Rook tosses his head back and laughs.

Maybe this will end up killing him. Maybe Rook won’t ever shake the desire to help and heal what could break him.

But God above, what a way to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Want an idea of what's coming next? Check out [this post](http://momomomma2.tumblr.com/post/178633371556/happy-kinktober) on my Tumblr!


End file.
